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Tag Archives: trashy

While holy matrimony has never been high on my list of hopeful accomplishments (although I can train the fuck out of a man. Ex-boyfriends that were once couch potatoes, allergic to family encounters, bitched about having to go to out-of-town weddings, were closeted alcoholics, verbally abusive – all matters leading to break ups are now treating ladies right. Now I get to sit back and watch my masterpieces practice my long, hard efforts in their current love lives. Bitter much…who moi? You’re welcome girls).

Whipping male asses into shape for fellow females.

Often classifying myself as trashtacular, it will come as no surprise that when I was driving by one of the many dumpsters near my mini manse, my interest was beyond piqued when I spied a gigantic white box big enough to store body parts beside the filthy green trash receptacle.

I did what any classy person would do…I slammed on the brakes, leapt out of my rust bucket, just knowing that the headless corpse I was about to discover would land me on my fave TV show, Forensic Files without having to be deceased.

Instead, as I slowly opened the box, an even bigger surprise awaited my eyeballs.

A fucking wedding gown. Preserved to perfection.

Was this a sign? An omen? Bad juju (I mean Jesus, is there any luck in finding a wedding dress dumpster diving? I mean, aside from it being free and all). I suddenly became a woman more excited about a wedding dress than finding a stray pussy that needs a home (JUST KIDDING. I would first home the cat and then set my sights on my pretend wedding).

This dress had been abandoned once before. Who was I to do it again? The chiffon pouf found a home in the back of my rust bucket, along with a Christmas tree and anything else I don’t have room for in the mini manse. It resided there until one evening at a gathering of gals for Supper Club. Among the convo, I mentioned my dumpster diving prowess skills and with zero urging, ran out to my car and got the box.

The shenanigans began.

Upon opening the box, we not only discovered there was the dress but also the veil AND THE SHOES – which revealed the previous owner’s practicality, as they were ballet flats. Ew.

My new favorite bad hair day ‘do.

Suddenly, I became a flushed bride trying to stuff myself into polyester chiffon (I mean, I didn’t go on a wedding dress diet because I didn’t know I would be so fortunate to be all dressed up…with no altar to go).

I haven’t tried to stuff myself into anything chiffon since, well, ever. I mean, naturally my prom dresses were sequins and any bridesmaid dress that I will “totally wear again” (and never, ever have) were more on the silk/satin side of the material world.

With a touch of fake tulips off my gal pal’s mantel, I was a (literally) hot bride – one lit cigarette butt from going up in flames.

While half of the group was trying to get me in and out of the dress, the other ladies were playing private detectives. We had a name from the alteration receipt, which was from a dress shop in Hoover, AL. WHAT WAS THE STORY BEHIND THIS DRESS?

I mean, if it was cheating, wouldn’t one burn the dress? A nasty divorce, even, maybe donate the dress? But to leave it unscathed at the dumpster really proved that this former bride had a sliver of regard for the giddy-up that once promised her forever, which may now be my forever. But whatever.

With the small paper trail and armed with her maiden name, our investigators were able to peruse social media, locate her, see second wedding photos (with a far more updated gown) and we all now know she lives three buildings down from me. Maybe we should all quit our jobs and become private detectives?

Lost but found.

OR maybe I will just quit my day job, go down to Broadway Street in Nashville in my new threads and pretend I got left at the altar for sympathy and free Skinny Pirates.

OR better yet, I can be the runaway bride and charge tourists (who pay for any and everything) $5 for a picture with this damsel in distress.

OR do I plan a wedding to myself for myself and register for all the things like Louis Vuitton bags, Christian Louboutin heels, a Go Fund Me account for vet bills, and a collection for a new car (i.e. Range Rover)?

OR do I wear this on every second date I go on?

While I have yet to ever online date, this for sure will be a profile picture if I ever do. Accompanied with one single tag line:

Must love cats.

I betcha they’ll be lining up to say, “I don’t,” even if I’m not looking for anything but casual.

Regardless, I can’t stop wearing the fucking veil.

Don’t mind me. Just a crazy lady parading around in a stranger’s veil.

I’m talking about the hair metal 80s band, not the princess of course.

I think we all can relate to the sentiment in one way or another. However, when it comes to peeps in my life that I love, you’re either in or out. One quality that I gratefully possess is I am never regretful of time spent with folks that I hold in my heart, nor do I take time with them for granted. That’s why for me, when you love the fuck out of someone and they no longer roam the earth, it can be a heart yanking time when their milestones still appear annually.

Aunt Crazy Pants celebrated her first birthday above on February 23, and in honor of this occasion, Mama CBXB came to Nashville and we par-tayed the only we way our family ever does. Trashtacularly.

On ACP’s actual day of birth, we took her to get her cocktail of choice, gin rickeys, at my fave local watering hole, Dalts.

A hungover day later, we went to get permanent tributes of the lady whose favorite color was green, loved shamrocks and owned one of the most unique signatures ever, which is what we were going to have tattooed on our wrists. I gussied up in my green heels I fashioned at the celebration of ACP’s life, perfected my mani to match and we were ready to go.

In summers of yesteryear, our families would spend Fourth of Julys at the Lake of the Ozarks. Which entailed not only in boating and booze but often tattoos and belly button piercings. Yes, yes, you read that right. I even think we made each new girlfriend of our dude cousins get belly button rings on their first Fourth with us. (A dream come true family that acts like a fraternity right here folks).

I was with ACP when she got her first ink from none other than the not even close to being world famous Tattoo Ted in the Ozarks.

We may have had one or eight drinks with sun poisoning but what did it matter?

With our history of classiness, we brought ACP along with us in spirit as Mama CBXB and I rolled into the Rebel Yell Tattoo and Social Club that came highly recommended.

When we traipsed through the doors, I’m fairly certain all four folks in the shop on a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon were well aware that this wasn’t a past time in which we often partook. Especially when I wondered aloud with Justin, our extremely patient artist, how a tattoo on my wrist would look when I do jazz hands. Because I use them a lot. Like, we seriously had a five-minute conversation about it, he put a stencil on my wrist with ACP’s name facing me and let me look in a mirror before I decided how I wanted the fucking three-inch artwork done.

I mean you guys. Obvies we use them.

All.the.time.

Maybe our novice was a dead giveaway when I asked my mom 400 times in the seven minutes it took Justin to tattoo her wrist if she was going to cry when it was over (she did – Tearfest 2018).

My defense mechanism against physical pain is apparently laughing because it’s all I did the entire time my four-minute ink was being perfected. Justin kept stopping to ask if I was OK and all I could do was giggle in the most unquiet way possible.

So what did these bad ass mother fuckers do? Celebrated with cocktails of course!

And it just so happened that two of ACP’s grandgirls came through Nashville that night, so we all cheersed our hearts out to the lady we love and miss.

Bittersweet without sharing the experience with ACP, there’s something ultra comforting to know she’s right here on my wrist. There have been some dark days for me recently, and I’ve found myself flipping my wrist over, admiring her signature, reminiscing on conversations, knowledge, 1,573,982,400 laughs and love we shared over her lifetime.

What I come to think of most is right after Rapegate, ACP was one of the first phone calls I received as the news made its way through my family. Her first words were, “you’re already one helluva strong lady – but you’ll be the strongest woman you know now.” The same words rang true when we found out she had terminal cancer six months later – and I repeated her words of wisdom back to her.

While cancer can go fuck itself, I’m comforted by the fact that I knew what I had with ACP before she was gone. Which is why her absence is ever present, more so now that I’m a bad ass mother fucker with a fancy signature on my wrist.

I picked up all kinds of trashy tips from my youth – like wrapping a can of pop (soda, Coke, whatever area of the world you live in insert word here) in aluminum foil is a poor gal’s koozie (my mom would do this to chill my beverage for field trips), keeping a wet wash cloth in a plastic baggie is just the same (and much cheaper) than a wet wipe (again, my clever mother), and ketchup between two slices of bread will make you feel like a chef (my genius shining through).

Ketchup sandwich for one, please.

Any of these tips ring a bell to you? If not, you’re a classy person – in my book anyway.

To me, being white trash is knowing better (eating the piece of cheese after removing the moldy corner, blaming the broken basketball hoop on me, your cousin when I saw you break it with my own two eyes, proudly announcing that your entire family’s favorite movie is National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, digging the bag of chips out of the garbage because you want to be sure you ate them all or wearing a mini skirt with heels – that are just a tad too high – but doing it anyway), while not giving a rat’s ass what anyone thinks.

An early mini minus the heels.

I grew up in a rural Iowa town where it was a big deal if Dad decided to get a Casey’s gas station pizza on Friday night, a small hog (yes hog, not dog) house served as my backyard playhouse where mud pies were served abundantly and you were never short a friend or cousin to play alongside and smoke sugared cancer sticks.

Classy candy cigarettes on the smoking deck after a long day of play.

I was also raised in a world where it was perfectly acceptable (in my family, anyway) to come home from the pool for lunch, play a round of baseball with Dad in the yard (not opting for a wardrobe change – sticking with the classy bathing suit), then head back to swim the rest of the day away.

Quick round of batting practice while home from the pool.

Being in a small town, we made our own fun. If there were no toys around or activities for a kid to do, my parents entertained me with a brown grocery bag, which I obviously enjoyed with enthusiasm.

No toys? No problem.

Preschool graduation days were also classily creative due to my mother’s knack of using paper and a plastic bowl in lieu of a real hat.

Kiddie College graduation day at its finest.

Thankfully, the tricks of the white trash trade I acquired while growing have remained in perfect tact.

Classy drunk girl gracefully aging through life with a red roadie and one shoe.

While in Miami recently, I was lucky enough to be invited to the beyond delicious Bourbon Steak restaurant. I’m sure the staff wanted to run for the hills upon our appearance and hearing my shrill voice laughing at the first photo of the evening which ended up being a group selfie fail compliments of yours truly.

I need longer arms. Or perhaps one of those things Santa delivered every other narcissistic person on the planet for Christmas…a selfie stick!

When entering a fine dining establishment, it’s important to first capture all of your classiness before you disrupt every other diner for two straight hours.

Don’t all restaurant goers get a pic in the entryway?

Hidden trashiness at its finest.

All of your classy efforts will fly right out the window faster than a witch on a broom when you’re unable to decide what to sip on for the evening due to the cocktail menu being as large as an outdated encyclopedia, so you just splurge. No one will look at you funny.

Two is better than one.

Next be sure to capture all of the finest accessories that accompany your experience because if you’re like me, you’re known for whipping together fancy suppers like this…

One of my masterpieces.

So pay no attention when snide looks are thrown your way as you snap a pic of very ordinary items on your lavish dinner table like olives so green it appears as if the Grinch made them.

GREEN OLIVES! HOLY SHIT!

And act cool when a Caesar salad comes out with a swirly bacon hat on top of it.

Is this considered six degrees from Kevin Bacon?

Keep it together when your sushi comes out minus the rice.

If I eat this raw fish I will have the body of Demi Moore, correct?

Being a classless diner means you wolf your food down while everyone else acts like a normal person and eats at a normal speed (and actually chews their food).

Did I do that?

Another thing about fabulously fancy restaurants is their comfortable seating. If you’re too full to move or need to pass out take a nap, simply lie down and do so.

After double fisting cocktails and stuffing my face so fast I wouldn’t have noticed if I swallowed one of my own rings, I sank into the plush couch where my ample rear resided.

Fancy restaurants require a snooze.

Fancy restaurants require photo bombing.

Fancy restaurants require thumb sucking.

Fancy restaurants require make out sessions with a pillow.

To all of those diners around me, it looked as if I was down for the count.

JUST KIDDING!

When you’re back and at ’em again, it’s smart to get your second wind by drinking a martini and coffee at the same time.

Secrets to lasting all night.

Something else that will help you remain secretly trashy in a classy joint is being joined by a sidekick. Not only did mine expertly photo bomb me, she did the following when I asked her to take yet another picture of me (because I didn’t have enough already)…

Yep, she’s perfect for me.

Once a Sidekick is in residence, it’s important to share every little detail of the fancy eating experience.

So when I discovered a full length mirror with complimentary lighting, I had to get SK in on the adventure.

Oh hello mirror! I’ve never seen myself before. Better get a picture.

Get outta the way bitch. We need the 5,389,013 picture of ourselves tonight!

Victoria’s Secret has not called yet. Weird.

It’s of the utmost importance to act as if dining in such a fine establishment is no big deal, so on your way out of the restaurant don’t make a scene where everyone in the restaurant can see you.

No, that’s not a plastic bag hanging off of SK’s purse as you might expect. It’s a scarf. Because it’s terribly cold in Miami.

But then again, what fun is it dining in a classy place without bringing a little tashtacular attitude?

I have a real knack for being trashtacular (i.e. acting a tad inappropriate during insane experiences but carrying on anyway while not giving a rat’s ass because I have zero shame) because every time I try to ‘be cool’ about outrageous things I get to do for work, I tend to look like a total idiot. So while riding in a private jet, I was my typical fabulously trashy self (at least I’m consistent).

If taking a private plane is second nature to you, there is no need to take a photo of your transportation.

But when you’re classy like me and think this may be your one and only opportunity to ever board a jet like a superstar (I’m the hired help), you go bananas and try to document the trip so you can prove you were actually on the plane.

Photo 1,093,267 of the same damn plane.

Fancy folks who typically travel in style (and not always in the back row of coach right next to the fucking bathrooms) are not impressed with the gold-plated seat belt. When I saw the shiny buckle, I acted like it was a solid gold and wondered how I could rip it from the seat and put it in my purse as a memento.

This fabulous accessory should be mine.

Private planes have heavily stocked liquor cabinets that I was happy to help empty. And, when you constantly travel via private jet, you know to sit in the seats with cup holders to hold your tasty beverages.

Not me. When I boarded, I just had to sit on the couch because the planes I normally ride in don’t contain living room furniture. Therefore, I had my neighbor hold my wine glass when my hands were busy.

Seat mates equally as classy as moi make for good cup holders.

The truly fabulous jet setter knows that pilots fly the plane. But I had to capture the moment in the cockpit in case I forgot.

Pilots flying a plane. How outrageous.

After helping the flight attendant clean out the liquor cabinet, I had no shame in becoming her best friend. And of course I had to solidify our newfound friendship with a photo.

The ever patient Chelsea who provided endless refills and most likely wanted to punch me in the face by the end of the flight as I was not the model passenger.

The fabulous jet setting crowd know that they can carry whatever they want onto the aircraft.

Being a giddy idiot over a gift basket I’d received during the trip, I paid no attention to putting one foot in front of the other and spilled its contents boarding the plane, horrifically watching my loot hit the tarmac (you can breathe a sigh of relief – all of my goodies remained in mint condition. Although I don’t think the flight crew had ever seen anyone loose marbles over a cookbook the way I did as I galloped down the stairs to collect my scattered possessions).

I’ll be damned if this is going under the plane.

And after all that running around the runway, gathering my basket belongings, I hustled up into the plane to get a snapshot of myself acting like a lady of leisure in the talent’s seat.

Oh Dahling. This old piece of metal? No biggie, I fly around in it all of the time. Where’s my glass of champs? CHELSEA!

This private jet thing is no big deal….unless you’re an ass clown like myself – and then it’s the ride of a lifetime.